Hours
by korinara
Summary: Aziraphale & Anathema. Aziraphale was just a tad infatuated. And by a tad, he meant a lot. And by a lot, he meant a great deal. And by a great deal, he meant that he could fill all of England and maybe a bit of Denmark with it.


Hours

**Hours**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Good Omens.

O O O

And so it was behind hours of hiding beneath a variety of complex and well-presented guises of innocent curiosity, of kind invitations to his humble bookstore, of trembling hands fumbling with the key in the lock and then tripping over his own well-manicured feet that he became a bit more self-aware.

It was behind hours of using his…err…_ethereality _to manipulate her senses into thinking that the store and _he, _in general, smelled rather pleasant in a certain enjoyable, masculine way, of grinding his perfect teeth together when Crowley's little voice piped in his head: _"Didn't I tell you not to get involved with a human girl? Now look what you've done—you've gone and gotten yourself infatuated with her," _and his own voice answered with an indignant, _"I have _not! _I'm merely being a gentleman to her," _that he attempted to refute the evidence.

Behind hours upon hours upon hours of watching her thumb through every little book he had, marveling over the writing (and signing!) of Nostradamus and the stain on the book he'd so graciously received from Mother Shipton, of smiling so politely and holding open doors for her and making her as comfortable as possible, he realized something direly disastrous.

Crowley was right.

Aziraphale was just a tad infatuated.

And by a tad, he meant a lot. And by a lot, he meant, a great deal. And by a great deal, he meant that this infatuation he held toward Miss Anathema could very well fill the entirety of the United Kingdom. And maybe even stretch to Denmark.

But _love, _he decided, was far too strong a word. _Love _had serious connotations; he needed to be mortal to love...well…like _that, _and, quite frankly, he wasn't. He'd been around for a couple millennia, and he'd seen it all. He had more experiences than anyone could imagine.

And really, though it wasn't the _first _time he'd ever felt so strongly toward a human being, it certainly was the first time he'd ever felt like _acting _upon such things.

Suddenly, as Aziraphale was once again watching Anathema Device with a bewildering sense of calamity within him—_"Infatuation," _Crowley sang in his head—he felt the need to recite the Ten Commandments. Anything to keep his mind away.

_I am the Lord thy God; thou shalt have no other gods before me; thou shalt not make wrongful use of the name of thy God; remember the Sabbath and keep it holy; honor thy Father and Mother; thou shalt not murde;, thou shalt not commit adultery; thou shalt not steal; thou shalt not bear false witness; thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house; thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife…_

Anathema cleared her throat and opened her mouth to speak, looked at him, closed it again, and then opted for scooting quite close beside him on the couch.

"Right here," she began, pointing to a passage in one of Mother Shipton's own works, "I can't quite make out this word because of the stain… Can you possibly tell me…?"

He nodded. "Of course. Where is it, you say?"

She tapped her little finger on the exact word.

He'd read it enough times to know. "That would be two words. 'Myne' and 'olde.'"

She looked rather embarrassed, then, pulling the book quickly away from him and moving back to her original seat. "I—I see." Such common words, and she hadn't spotted them! Well, he couldn't blame her. She was actually quite learned with this particular…style.

She crossed one leg over the other, and Aziraphale's attention was immediately switched from Mother Shipton and her _Collection of Prophecies _to Anathema Device and her _Extremely Attractive Legs_.

_Thoushaltnotcommiteadulterythoushaltnotcommiteadulterythoushaltnotcommiteadultery…_

She uncrossed her legs and opted for leaning back, shoulders hunched slightly as she stared into the endless pages of the book, infinitesimally interested. Her left hand came up to brush the dark hair from her face, and a very pretty, very rosy (well, in the dim light, anyway; Anathema was actually quite pale) cheek was left exposed to Aziraphale.

He felt very much like he was looking at something private, then.

_Thou shalt not commit—_

"Aziraphale?" she asked, looking up from the text to stare at him, and he realized that the dusting of pinkish color across her cheeks was a faint _blush. _A blush! A _blush! _For _him! _Oh, what _had _he gotten himself into?

He cleared his throat. "Yes?"

"Do you have a bed here?"

Aziraphale's stomach, which had previously served no other purpose to him besides, well, _existing _when he lusted for indulgence in the form of chocolate cake or maybe a piece or seven of caramel candy, dropped.

He didn't know it could do that.

"A…bed?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Yes. Well…ah…you see, I don't exactly have a ride _home, _and it's a bit stormy out tonight—" The heaven's flashed and bellowed, as if on cue.

Aziraphale could _swear _Crowley had something to do with this.

"Indeed…I…do." _The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want—_

"Will you be staying, as well?"

Oh, she was coming on to him, wasn't she?

"Do you…you know, _live _here?" she asked and leaned close to him, closing the book in her lap.

Aziraphale was startlingly aware of how low her shirt collar dipped when she leaned over like that.

_He maketh me lie down in green pastures—_

She pressed her shoulders into her torso tighter, apparently embarrassed. She was no Virgin Mary, this one. "I wouldn't want to intrude on your personal space or anything."

"…Ah?" was about all that Aziraphale could manage. _HE LEADETH ME BESIDE STILL WATERS. HE RESTORETH MY SOUL—_

She ran a nervous hand across the expanse of her collarbone, toying with the necklace that hung there, as her other hand fiddled with a strand of her hair absently. "I'm so sorry to ask."

"It's no—"

Here she crossed one of her legs again.

"—problem." _HeleadethmeinthepathsofrighteousnessforHisname'ssake—oh, dear, this isn't working at all; please stop, please stop, pleasepleaseplease…_

"You can sleep on the couch?" he offered. "I have a blanket in the back." Calm. If there was anything Aziraphale had learned in his years upon Earth, it was self-control. And patience.

But apparently, his mind had other ideas.

_Thou shalt not commit adultery, Aziraphale. Thou shalt _not. _Thou shalt _not.

She set the book on the table. "Terribly sorry for this. I suppose I'll…sleep now?"

_Thou _shalt_ commit adultery._

_NO!_

_Thou shalt _not!

_I curse you, Wicked Bible!_

He rose to fetch the blanket, which was quite a ways into the back. When he returned he was still chanting to himself inwardly, and he handed the fuzzy, woolly thing to Anathema.

She took it and spread it across herself, thanking him and lying down. "Goodnight, Aziraphale."

"Goodnight, Anathema."

And with that he flicked off the lights with a snap of his fingers, strode into his backroom, and collapsed upon an armchair in a defeated heap.

Oh, the woes of being an angel.

Somewhere, he just knew Gabriel was frowning at him. And Michael. And Uriel, too, for that matter.

Self-important buggers.


End file.
